empty passion

"andrew does not believe in empty passion . . .

"andrew woulds say that dying for something is easy because it is associated with glory. living for something, andrew would say, is the hard thing. living for something extends beyond fashion or glory or recognition. we live for what we believe, andrew would say.

"if andrew the protester is right, if i live what i believe, then i don't believe very many noble things. my life testifies that the first thing i believe is that i am the most important person in the world. my life testifies to this because i care more about my food and shelter and happiness than about anybody else.

"i am learning to believe better things. i am learning to believe that oter people exist, that fashion is not truth; rather, Jesus is the most important figure in history, and the gospel is the most powerful force in the universe. i am learning not to be passionate about empty things, but to cultivate passion for justice, grace, truth and communicate the idea that Jesus likes people and even loves them."

--donald miller, blue like jazz

Home

from my journal, thanksgiving weekend, last year. i was in fredericksburg, visiting my family . . . home for the holiday.

"home is one of those funny words . . . one you can use in three consecutive conversations and mean a different place everytime you use it. me, for instance: home (1): fredericksburg, va - where i was raised and my family still lives; home (2): harrisonburg, va - where my heart still is in many respects, and the place where i am at peace; home (3): salisbury, md - where i currently reside. and when you use the word, you then have to be careful to whom you are speaking so that the meaning of the word is not confused. funny how words are . . ."

things have changed a bit since that journal entry last year. as they should. as i hoped they would. home (1) remains the same, except that i have a deeper respect and longing for it than i ever have. home (2), as i learned when i went back in late october, has changed quite a bit. while the memories remain and the evidence to the changes that occurred in me during my time there are still wonderfully evident, it is no longer the place of deepest comfort that i gleaned from it even a year ago. home (3), however, has changed the most. last year at this time, salisbury was simply the place where my apartment was, where my job was, where i rested my head each night. the emotional attachment was little, if any. it was a place to be, for a time. but nothing more. but now it is different. now there are people here that i love. now there are people here who are beginning to know me more than just on a surface-level. now there is a familiarity with the lay of the land. now there is a peace in coming back here after being away for a weekend. now there is some emotional attachment. something that tells me that if i were to leave tomorrow, i would be sad. it is good to feel that after wondering, at one point, if you would ever feel that way.

i have been here almost a year and a half. and year and 4 months to be exact. i am still not sure exactly what it means to call this place my home. but i am learning that individuals, perhaps, never define the word home in the same way. for those who have never left home - never lived anywhere else, home is everything - past, present and (often) future. but for ones like me, who have to number their homes, the definitions are endless. and one home is always missing something that the other home holds. one has all of the childhood memories, the early discipline that shaped basic ideas of right and wrong, the even earlier love that taught you how to love others on the most basic level. one holds the perspective of seeing the world for what it is (both the beauty and the cruelty), the learning how to deal with it on your own, the individuality and humilty that pushed you to be vulnerable and risk something to develop deep relationships, and the fun that made you enjoy life on a whole new level. and even another holds the present, all that is happening on a day to day basis. different places. different characteristics. all home. all legitimately home.

funny how words are . . .

the following poem was written by a guy named jedd medefind in march of 1998. he and three of his friends had set out for a journey around the world - in search of the "epic life". as their webpage states:

"They returned convinced that the very thing they sought - what they called the
epic life - was not to be found "out there" but only in abandon to Jesus in the
ordinary minutes of everyday life..."

in college, some friends and i had the opportunity to sit down to dinner with these guys and their wives and hear a little more about their story (they were speaking at my university for our intervarsity large group meeting). check out the book form of what i got to hear: www.foursoulsthebook.com.

back to the poem you are about to read. from jedd:

"this poem was written in india after a troubling episode in which mike, matt,
trey and i prayed for a crippled indian man with an uncommon confidence he
would be healed. he was not healed."

here the immense honesty in his words. and the beautiful Love that allows him to question yet captivates him with truth.

"Doubt"
My faith lies like a broken man.
Yesterday I praised Him with palm branches; but something in me today cries out,
"Crucify your foolish hope! You only thought you saw the leper cleansed and that lame man click his heals."
I writhe in my unsurity.
Christ never used the coercion of a miracle one must believe.
"Why," I shout with the Inquisitor, "do You not make belief compulsory? Show Your hand!"
But finally, my rage spent, I crumple down upon the dusty road, and in my mind sift through a desert.
Some see God as shackles, and in doubt they glimpse a liberating key.
But I see better than that.
For even if the skeptics were right, and heaven did not exist, hell most certainly would.
For whether or not there is a God, hell is to live without Him.
Life alone is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.
A moment of joy, a brief taste of pleasure…"the early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour."
Hope is false, peace an illusion, and happiness, at best, is fleeting.
Indeed, if Christ is not raised from the dead, we are all most miserable men…
And invading my thoughts, the soft slap of sandals upon the path.
I do not raise my head for fear of seeing no one.
But still a voice speaks deep and gentle, "You too will not leave me?"
And I reply, "Whence shall I go, Lord?"

--jedd medefind

and, with peter and jedd, i reply,
“whence shall i go, Lord?”

john 6:67-68

for more of jedd's poetry, check out http://www.foursoulsthebook.com/jeddspoetry.htm

i love tiramisu. i love surprise visits. i love anne of avonlea. i love fun phone calls. i love thoughtful friends.

last night, i experienced all of those. imagine . . . all of those wonderful things in one night. i'd say that's a pretty darn good night, wouldn't you? i sure thought so.

did i mention i love tiramisu?

irony at the gym

so since it has started getting dark about the time i get home from work, it has severly limited the amount of time i have to run outdoors . . . which in essence means i have to run on the treadmill instead (which, i will add, is not the same . . . nor is it near as enjoyable). so for the past few weeks i have plodded over to the gym at my apt complex to go for my runs.
at this point, it is important that you know that there is a large t.v. mounted in our work-out room. now, if i get lucky enough to be the only one in the room, the t.v. stays off . . . i'd rather run in silence than listen to most of what is on t.v. these days. plus it gives me good thinking time. but if other people are in there, the t.v. usually gets turned on. sometimes it's sports or news - so i watch it and usually learn something. and sometimes it's something like the o.c. or the simpsons or the terminator (yes, that was on once), so i zone out.

but the irony of this story comes in what i have had to watch the last few times i have gone for my run. as if running 3-5 miles is not difficult enough to get thru after you've worked a full day, i come in to see that lovely t.v. turned to THE FOOD NETWORK. now honestly, i don't know who does this. i don't know HOW they do it. who wants to be running or lifting weights or riding a bike or whatever you do while you are watching these lovely chef-people cook and bake and sautee and simmer up these delicious, mouth-watering meals. i mean, really, it's like torture. and you can't very well just zone out because . . . well . . . it's food . . . and it looks so good you can almost smell it. so instead, i just keep watching, all the while burning off calories but really wishing i were sitting in that lady's kitchen sampling the things she's making.

long-distance runners always say that 50% of the run is mental . . . in tonight's case, i think the mental portion of my run was around 80%.

i now have a love/hate relationship with the food network.

(note: another blog may soon follow discussing this phenomenon of cooking shows that seem to have erupted over the last couple of years . . . i had time to think about this during the commercial breaks tonight . . . it's really quite ridiculous and unbelievable . . . what ever happened to good 'ol cookbooks that you get from church where all the old ladies have put in their secret family recipies??? now we have to have people on at all hours of the day and night showing us how to cook? craziness, i say . . . but that's for another blog at another time . . .)

THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE UNASHAMED

(Said to be written by a young African pastor and tacked to the wall of
his house; discovered by those who entered his house after he was
martyred.)

"I am part of the Fellowship of the Unashamed. I have Holy Spirit
power. The die has been cast. I have stepped over the line. The
decision has been made. I am a disciple of Jesus Christ. I won't look
back, let up, slow down, back away or be still.

"My past is redeemed, my present makes sense, and my future secure. I
am finished and done with low living, sight walking, small planning,
smooth knees, colorless dreams, tamed visions, mundane talking, chintzy
giving and dwarfed goals.

"I no longer need pre-eminence, prosperity, position, promotions,
plaudits or popularity. I don't have to be right, first, tops,
recognized, praised, regarded or rewarded. I now live by faith, lean on
His presence, love by patience, lift by prayer and labor by power.

"My face is set, my gait fast, my goal heaven, my road narrow, my way
rough, my companions few, my Guide reliable, my mission clear. I cannot
be bought, compromised, detoured, lured away, turned back, deluded or
delayed. I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the
presence of adversity, negotiate at the table of the enemy, ponder at
the pool of popularity or meander in the maze of mediocrity.

"I won't give up, back up, let up or shut up until I have preached up,
paid up, stayed up, stored up, and prayed up for the cause of Christ. I
am a disciple of Jesus Christ. I must go until He comes, give until I
drop, preach until all know Him and work until He stops me. And when He
comes to get His own, He will have no problem recognizing me - my
colors will be clear."

oh, that our lives would be lived with this boldness . . . with this much conviction . . .

doubtless this man knew the truth of these statements:

"he is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose"

--jim elliott

"if anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. for whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it."

--jesus

a simple poem. but beautiful. because it's simple. and because it's true.

Follow Me . . .

Listen. There’s a group of people
I want to tell you about.
They’re not the
extraordinarily intelligent,
strikingly beautiful,
got-it-all-together,
know-it-all
kind of people.
They’re the
kind of people
who’ll stop
by the side of the road
to pull a total stranger
out of the mud.

No, they’re not perfect.

They’re human. But they’re the
kind of people
who’ll stay up all night
with you when you
find out
your grandfather just died.
They’re the kind of people
you fall asleep with
while watching long movies.

No, they’re not perfect.

They’re the kind of people
you eat too many
hand-picked apples with
and sprain your ankle
miniature golfing with.
They’re the kind of people you walk
up to at a frat house with
where unfamiliar students
are sitting outside
and you invite those students
to come and learn
about Jesus.

No, they’re not perfect.

They’re the kind of people
that try to have conversations
that cut through
all the walls and all the masks
people use to keep other people
at a safe distance.

No, they’re not perfect,
and they don’t pretend to be.

That’s the thing.
They’ve done everything else.
They didn’t used to think twice
about picking locks,
stealing road signs,
drinking a 5th of gin
after a whole case of Molsen Ice,
sleeping with a new guy
every Friday night because
they were too lonely
to sleep by themselves.
They used to be petrified of death.
They used to wake up
in the middle of the night
with tears streaming
down their faces
because they new something
was missing in their life,
but they didn’t know what.
They used to stand
in from of the mirror
and wish they could
look like a Vogue model
or be as famous,
because that would mean
people accepted them.
They used to think
they could do it all on their own.
They used to think they
could find ultimate satisfaction
in education
or saving the environment
or fighting for a cause
or looking good to others
or trying to do what they thought
was the right thing.

They weren’t perfect then,
and they’re not perfect now.

They realized these things
didn’t last forever.
A person can only
sleep with someone
stay angry
get drunk
steal
hurt
put up walls
protest
study
look good
act perfect
and stay miserable
for so long.

Then it gets old
and they want someone
to be there
when their fun-loving mask
has worn off,
their ambition has fizzled,
their grades have sunk,
their walls have tumbled
and their heart is broken.

This is what happened to
the people I want you to meet.
They realized
there was another way,
a better way.
Then someone whispered quietly
in their ears, “Follow me,”

And they did.

Christina Burke
Wheaton College
Norton, Massachusetts
Class of 1997

a note to all holiday bakers:

if you are planning to cook with pumpkin, be sure to change into something that you don't mind getting messy, because the pumpkin will inevitably end up all over you. and it doesn't come out so easy with a washrag. hopefully the washer will do a better job.

this has happened to me twice in the last 48 hours. you'd think i would have learned the first time.

food for thought. a friend gave me these on index cards when i was in college - possibly the busiest time of my life thus far. i keep these on a little ring with some other key scripture verses and carry them with me. read and do.

we need silence to be alone with God, to speak to him, to listen to him, to ponder his words deep in our hearts. we need to be alone with God in silence to be renewed and transformed. silence gives us a new outlook on life. in it we are filled with the energy of God himself that makes us do all things with joy.

silence of the eyes by seeking always the beauty and goodness of God everywhere and closing them to the faults of others and to all that is sinful and disturbing to the soul.

silence of the ears, by listening always to the voice of God and the cry of the poor and needy, and closing them to all the other voices that come from the evil one and from fallen human nature, e.g. gossip, tale-bearing, uncharitable words.

silence of the tongue, by praising God and speaking the life-giving Word of God that is Truth that enlightens and inspires, brings peace, hope and joy, and refraining from self-defence and every word that causes darkness, turmoil, pain and death.

silence of the mind by opening it to the Truth and knowledge of God in prayer and contemplation, like Mary who pondered the marvvels of the Lord in her heart, and closing it to all untruths, distractions, destructive thoughts like rash judgment, false suspicion of others, revengeful thoughts and desires.

silence of the heart, by loving God with our whole heart, soul, mind and strength and one another as God loves, desiring God alone and avoiding all selfishness, hatred, envy, jealousy and greed.

a tall order.

take time to be silent . . . to be still . . . to listen for His voice . . .

so i was at the supermarket today, and as i passed down the juice aisle, i actually laughed outloud - all i could hear was brian regan,

"i don't know what it is with cranberries . . . but they're getttin in all the other juices! whoever the salesman is for cranberries is doing a heck of a job . . ."

it's true. half the juices on the juice aisle are cran-something. crazy.

"Some may wish to live with the sound
of church and chapel bell-
I wish to run a rescue shop
within a yard of hell."
--C.T. Studd

words of wisdom gathered from k. fletch. sharing the wealth.

my heart's cry. wherever it may be.

easter in a cancer ward

i first read this poem in college - a friend passed it my way. i'm still not sure i fully understand it all, but i know for sure that i felt a whole mess of emotions - fluctuating from one extreme to the other in a matter of a line - as i read it. the more i read it, the more i love it. i love the colors. i love the imagery. i love how i can see and hear and feel this poem. picture it as you go. and experience it. sometimes only in coming face to face with death, do we come to understand true life. come to belief.

Easter in a Cancer Ward
--Nicholas Samaras

Because it has been years since my hands
have dyed an egg or I've remembered
my father with color in his beard,
because my fingers have forgotten
the feel of wax melting on my skin,
the heat of the paraffin warping air,
because I prefer to view death politely from afar,
I agree to visit the children's cancer ward.

In her ballet-like butterfly slippers, Elaine pad-pads
down the carpeted hall. I bring the bright bags,
press down packets of powdered dye, repress my slight unease.
She sweeps her hair from her volunteer badge, leaves
behind her own residents' ward for a few hours' release.
The new wing's doors glide open onto great light. Everything is
vibrant and clattered with color. Racing
up, children converge, their green voices rising.

What does one do with the embarrassment of staring
at sickness? Suddenly, I don't know where to place
my hands. Children with radiant faces
reach out thinly, clamor for the expected bags, lead
us to the Nurses' kitchen. Elaine introduces me and reads
out a litany of names. Some of the youngest wear
old expressions. The bald little boy loves Elaine's long mane of hair
and holds the healthy thickness to his face, hearing

her laugh as she pulls him close. "I'm dying,"
he says, and Elaine tells him she is, too: too
much iron silting her veins. I can never accept that truth
yes, in five months, she'll slip away in a September
night - leaving her parents and me to bow our heads, bury her
in a white wedding gown, our people's custom.
But right now, I don't know this. Right now, we are young,
still immortal, and the kids fidget, crying

out for their eggs. Elaine divides them into teams;
I lay out the tools for the operation.
I tell them all how painting Easter eggs used to be done
in the Old Country. Before easy dyes were common,
villagers boiled onion peels, ladled eggs
into pots so the shells wouldn't break.
They'd scoop them out, flushed a brownish-
red, and the elders would polish and polish

them with olive oil, singing hymns for the Holy Thursday hours.
The children laugh and boo when I try to sing. The boys swirl
speckles of color into hot water, while the girls
time the eggs. When a white-faced boy asks from nowhere
if I believe in Christ and living forever,
I stop stirring the mix, answer, "Yes, I do." I answer slowly
and when I speak, my own voice deafens me.
The simple truth blooms like these painted flowers

riding up the bright kitchen walls. I come
to belief. I know that much. Still, what a man may
do with his beliefs demands more than what he says.
Now, the hot waters are stained a rich red. The eggs have
boiled and cooled. To each set of hand, Elaine gives
one towel, three eggs. I pass the pot of melted paraffin,
show the children how to take the eggs and dip them in
and out. While the wax hardens to an opaque film, we hum

Cristos Aneste and the room bustles, ajabber
with speech. Holding pins firmly, we scratch out mad
designs where the color will fill. Small, flurried hands
etch and scrim the shells. Everyone's fingers whorl
and scratch in names, delicate and final.
Edging the hall's threshold, an April allow-
ance of sun filters through tinted windows. Faces furrow
in solemn concentration. Looking to Elaine, my thoughts clamor

for what is redemptive in illness, for having
a Credo to hold these people to me. Etchings
done, everyone immerses the waxy eggs in the pooled
dye. We ooh together when transfigured eggs are spooned
out, wiped, and dried on the counters. Soft wax
is peeled gingerly, flecked away; more oohs for the tracks
of limned lines, testimonial names.
We burnish the shells with olive oli for a fine sheen.

For a moment, the cultivated, finished eggs hush
the room. Then, every child goes wild in a rush
to compare, to show the nurses, each
other. The bald boy taps my waist. Lined up and speech-
less, they present me with a bright, autographed
egg, communally done. Elaine makes me close my eyes and laughs
when small limbs push at my back to follow
her. They shove my hands in the cool, wet, red dye. The hollow-

eyed girl squeals til tears streak from laughing.
Another child cries, "You'll never get it off!
And today, I don't want to. Today,
we've painted eggs a lively color, not caring
about the body's cells and the cells' incarceration.
I lift my arms to embrace Elaine, dab her nose and chin.
And my hands are vivid red. My hands
are bloody with resurrection

and we are laughing.